 | Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond |  |
BAD SPELLING.
The last notes of the bell which duly summoned to their
task the pupils of Madame Duvant's fashionable seminary
had ceased, and in the school-room, recently so silent, was
heard the low hum of voices, interspersed occasionally
with a suppressed titter from some girl more mischievous
than her companions. Very complacently Madame Duvant
looked over the group of young faces, mentally estimating
the probable gain she should receive from each,
for this was the first day of the term, then with a few
low-spoken words to the row of careworn, pale-faced
teachers, she smoothed down the folds of her heavy grey
satin and left the room, just as a handsome traveling-carriage
stopped before the door.
The new arrival proved to be a fashionably-dressed
woman, who, with an air of extreme hauteur, swept into
the parlor, followed by two young girls, one apparently
sixteen and the other fourteen years of age. The
younger and, as some would call her, the plainer looking
of the two, was unmistakably a “poor relation,” for her
face bore the meek, patient look of a dependent, while
the proud black eyes and scornfully curved lip of the
other, marked her as the daughter of the lady, who, after
glancing about the room and satisfying herself that the
chairs, tables, and so forth, were refined, gave her name
Herkimer co., N. Y.”
“I have come,” said she, apparently speaking to Madame
Duvant, but looking straight at the window, “I've
come to place my daughter Arabella under your charge,
and if she is pleased with your discipline, she will finish
her education here—graduate—though I care but little
for that, except that it sounds well. She is our only
child, and, of course, a thorough education in the lower
English branches is not at all necessary. I wish her to be
highly accomplished in French, Italian, music, drawing,
painting, dancing, and, perhaps, learn something of the
old poets, so as to be able to talk about them a little, if
necessary, but as for the other branches, such as geography,
history, arithmetic, grammar, and the like, she can
learn them by herself, and it is not my wish that she
should waste her time over any thing so common. These
will do for Mildred,” and she glanced toward the poor
relation, whose eyes were bent upon the carpet.
“She is the child of my husband's sister, and we have
concluded to educate her for a teacher, so I wish you to
be very thorough with her in all those stupid things which
Arabella is not to study.”
Madame Duvant bowed, and Mrs. Greenleaf continued,
“Last term they were at Bloomington Seminary, and, if
you'll believe it, the principal insisted upon putting Arabella
into the spelling-class, just because she didn't chance
to spell every word of her first composition correctly!
I dare say it was more Mildred's fault than hers, for she
acknowledged to me that 'twas one of Mildred's old
pieces that she found and copied.”
An angry flash of Arabella's large black eyes, and a
manifested by the young girls, and Mrs. Greenfield
proceeded: “Of course, I wouldn't submit to it—my
daughter spelling baker, and all that nonsense, so I took
her away at once. It was my wish that Mildred should
remain, but husband, who is peculiar, wouldn't hear of
it, and said she should go where Arabella did, so I've
brought them both.”
After little further conversation, it was arranged that
Miss Arabella should go through a course of merely fashionable
accomplishments, Madame Duvant assuring her
mother that neither spelling-book nor dictionary should in
any way annoy her. Mildred, on the contrary, was to be
thoroughly drilled in every thing necessary for a teacher
to know, Mrs. Greenleaf hinting that the sooner her education
was completed the better she would be pleased,
for it cost a great deal to clothe, feed and school her.
Madame Duvant promised to execute the wishes of her
patron, who gathered up her flowing robes, and with a
dozen or more kisses for her daughter, and a nod of
her head for Mildred, stepped into her carriage and was
driven rapidly away.
Just across the spacious grounds of the Duvant Seminary,
and divided from them by a wall which it seemed
almost impossible to scale, stood a huge stone building,
whose hacked walls, bare floors and dingy windows—from
which were frequently suspended a cap, a pair of trousers,
or a boy's leg—stamped it at once as “The College,” the
veriest pest in the world, as Madame Duvant called it,
when, with all the vigilance both of herself and Argus-eyed
teachers, she failed to keep her young ladies from making
church, bowed to them in the streets, tied notes to stones
and threw them over the ponderous wall, while the girls
waved their handkerchiefs from their windows, and in
various other ways eluded the watchfulness of their teachers.
A great acquisition to the fun-loving members of
the seminary was Arabella Greenleaf, and she had scarcely
been there six weeks ere she was perfectly well acquainted
with every student whom she considered at all worth
knowing. But upon only one were her brightest glances
and her most winsome smiles lavished, and that was
George Clayton, a young man from South Carolina, who
was said to be very wealthy. He was too honorable to
join in the intrigues of his companions, and when at last
he became attracted by the witching eyes and dashing
manners of Arabella Greenleaf, he went boldly to Madame
Duvant and asked permission to see the young lady in the
parlor.
His request was granted, and during the two years
he remained at college, he continued occasionally to call
upon Arabella, who, each time that he saw her, seemed
more pleasing, for she was beautiful, and when she chose
to be so was very courteous and agreeable. One evening
when George called as usual and asked to see her, he
waited a long time, and was about making up his mind to
leave, when a fair, delicate looking girl, with deep blue
eyes and auburn hair, entered the room, introducing herself
as Miss Graham, the cousin of Arabella, who, she
said, was indisposed and unable to come down.
“She bade me say that she was very sorry not to see
you,” added Mildred, for she it was, blushing deeply as
she met the eager, admiring eye of George Clayton.
Gladly would he have detained her, but with a polite
good evening, she left him in a perfect state of bewilderment.
“Strange that I never observed her before, for I
must have seen her often,” he thought, as he slowly
wended his way back to his rooms, “and stranger still
that Arabella never told me she had a cousin here.”
The next time he met Arabella his first inquiry was for
her cousin, and why she had never mentioned her. With
a heightened color Arabella answered, “Oh, she's a little
body, who never cares to be known—a perfect bookworm
and man-hater.”
The words bookworm and man-hater produced upon
George Clayton a far different effect from what Arabella
had intended, and he often found himself thinking of the
soft blue eyes of Mildred Graham. Unlike some men,
there was nothing terrible to him in a bookish woman,
and he might, perhaps, have sought another interview
with Mildred, but for a circumstance which threw her entirely
in the shade.
The annual examination of Madame Duvant's seminary
was drawing near. Arabella was to graduate, while both
she and Mildred were competitors for a prize offered for
the best composition. There was a look of wonder on
Mildred's face, when she saw her cousin's name among
the list, for composition was something in which Arabella
did not excel. Greatly then did Mildred marvel when
day after day she found her, pencil in hand, and apparently
lost in thought, as she filled one sheet after another, until
at last it was done.
“Now, Milly,” said Arabella, “You correct the spelling
and copy it for me—that's a good girl.”
Mildred had acted in this capacity too often to refuse,
the manuscript, wondering the while from whence came
the sudden inspiration which had so brightened Arabella's
ideas. But if she had any suspicions of the truth she kept
them to herself, handing her own composition in with that
of her cousin, and calmly waiting the result.
The examination was over. Arabella, who knew exactly
what questions would be put to her, had acquitted herself
with great credit, and her proud lady mother, who
was one of the numerous visitors, fanned herself complacently
as she heard on all sides the praises of her
daughter.
And now nothing remained but the evening exhibition,
at which music and the prize compositions formed the
chief entertainment. At an early hour the large school-rooms
were densely crowded. Among the first who came
was George Clayton—securing a seat as near as possible
to the stage, so that he should not lose a single word.
He himself had graduated but two weeks previously,
and was now about to make the tour of Europe together
with his father, who was present. They were to
sail the next night, and at nine o'clock this evening they
were to leave for New York. During the examination
Arabella had risen greatly in George's estimation, and if
she had seemed beautiful to him then, she was tenfold
more so now, when, with flowing curls and simple white
muslin dress, she tripped gracefully across the stage, and
seating herself at the piano, played and sang with exquisite
skill the well-known song entitled, “No More,
Never More.”
Then followed the reading of the compositions, Mildred
sweet voice she read, chaining to perfect silence her
audience, which, when she was done, greeted her with
noisy cheers, whispering one to another that she was sure
to win. Arabella, at her own request, was the last.
With proud, flashing eyes and queenly air, she cooly surveyed
the mass of heads before her, caught an admiring
glance from George Clayton, and then, with a steady
hand unrolled her manuscript and read. Her subject was
“The Outward and the Inward Life,” and no gray-haired
sage ever handled it more skilfully than she. When she
finished one universal burst of applause shook the building
to its centre, while her name was on every lip as she
triumphantly left the room. Just then a distant bell
struck the hour of nine, and George Clayton arose to go.
He was sure of Arabella's success, and in the hall below,
whither she had gone to bid him adieu, he shook her hand
warmly, telling her how happy it made him to see her
thus victorious, and winning from her a promise to write
to him when he should be over the sea.
Half an hour later and the night express was bearing
him far away. Half an hour later, and with flushed brow
Arabella stood up and received the prize, which consisted
of two elegantly bound volumes of Wordsworth and
Coleridge.
Forty minutes later, and from the seat by the door, a
little bent, weird-looking woman arose, and making her
way through the crowd, advanced until she stood upon
the stage, then stretching her long, bony finger toward
Arabella, who had returned, she said, “I am a lover of
justice, and should I hold my peace, the very stones
would cry out against me. Yonder young lady has no
off as her own appeared in the Woodland Gazette, a
paper published in an obscure New Hampshire village.
How she came by it, she can, perhaps, explain, but I
cannot.”
At the commencement of this strange speech, Arabella
arose as if to defy the woman, who was thus blasting her
good name, but at the mention of the Woodland Gazette she
fainted and was carried from the room. Madame Duvant
now came forward and addressed a few low-spoken words
to the woman, who answered aloud, “I have the best of
reasons for what I have said. My son, who lives in New
Hampshire, occasionally sends me the Gazette, and in one
number, which came nearly a year ago, appeared this very
article, taken originally from an old English paper.”
“Prove it! Produce the paper!” fiercely ejaculated
Mrs. Greenleaf, as she left the room in quest of her
daughter.
“I can do so,” answered the woman; “I never tore
up a newspaper in my life, and if the audience will wait
for the space of ten minutes, I can show them the very
article”—saying which she glided noiselessly from the
room.
She was a strange, half-crazy old creature, of wonderful
memory, who occupied a small cottage in the suburbs
of the village, and many doubts were expressed as to the
veracity of her statement. But these were soon put to
flight by her reappearance. Unfolding the dingy yellow
paper, she read aloud to her astonished hearers the article,
which proved to have been taken from the London Examiner.
There was now no longer a shadow of doubt,
and the prize was withdrawn from the treacherous Arabella,
next in order, it was bestowed upon her.
Mortified, indignant and almost frantic at this public disgrace,
Arabella finally confessed to having stolen the piece
from a paper sent her some months before by a former
schoolmate. The next morning she left the village, heaping
her pent-up wrath upon the head of her innocent cousin,
who was destined in more ways than one to rival her.
Three months had passed away since the night of the
exhibition, and in a private parlor at a London hotel sat
George Clayton, rather impatiently awaiting the return
of his servant from the post-office. As yet he had received
no letter from Arabella, for though she had written
it had failed to reach him, and while he in the Old World
was marvelling at her long delay, she in the New was
wondering why he did not answer. The mortification
which she had endured affected her deeply, bringing on
at last a slow fever, which confined her to her bed, where
for weeks she lay, carefully attended by Mildred, who
once, when she complained of George's neglect, suggested
the possibility of his not having received the letter. This
was a new idea to Arabella, and as she was herself unable
to write, she persuaded Mildred to do it for her, and
strange to say, the two letters reached their destination
at the same time.
With eager haste George took them from his servant,
who soon went out leaving him alone. The handwriting
of both was not alike, and in some trepidation the young
man broke the seal of the one bearing the more recent
date. It was beautifully written, and mentally complimenting
the fair writer, George opened the other, uttering
lines. It was a sickly, sentimental affair, taken partly
from an old letterwriter, and containing many highflown
sentences concerning the “pearling rill,” the “silverey
starlite” and the “rozy morn,” which, being spelled as
they were, presented a most formidable aspect to the fastidious
young man.
Although Arabella had taken much pains with her letter,
at least one-fourth of the words were misspelt, and by
the time George had finished reading, he entertained no
other feeling toward the writer than one of disgust, to
think that, with all her showy accomplishments, she had
neglected what to him was the most important of all, for
in nothing is the ignorance of a young lady more apparent
than in a badly-spelled letter. It was a long time ere he
answered it, and then the few lines which he wrote were
so cold, so different from his first, that in a fit of anger
Arabella tossed it into the fire, repenting the act the moment
after, and, as if to make amends, writing in return
a long letter, to which there came no response, and thus
the correspondence ended.
Eighteen months later, and again Madame Duvant's
rooms were crowded to overflowing, but this time Arabella
Greenleaf was not there, though George Clayton
was, eagerly watching each word and movement of Mildred
Graham, whose uncle had insisted upon her remaining
at school until she, too, should graduate, and who
now, justly, received the highest honors of her class.
Very beautifully looked the young girl, and as she
modestly received the compliments of her friends, George
Clayton's was not the only admiring eye which rested
upon her, for many now paid her homage.
That night George asked to see her alone. His request
was granted, and when next she parted from him it was
as his betrothed. Immediately after George's return
from Europe, he had heard the story of Arabella's perfidy,
and if no other circumstances had interposed to wean
him from her entirely, this alone would have done it, for
he could not respect a woman who would thus meanly
stoop to deception. He had lingered in G— for the
purpose of renewing his former acquaintance with Mildred,
the result of which we have seen.
Mortified beyond measure, Arabella heard of her cousin's
engagement, and when George came at last to claim
his bride, she refused to see him, wilfully absenting herself
from home that she should not witness the bridal,
which took place one bright October morning, when the
forest trees, as if in honor of the occasion, were dressed
in their most gorgeous robes, and the birds were singing
their farewell songs.
New misfortunes, however, awaited poor Arabella, for
scarcely was Mildred gone to her southern home when
the red flag of the auctioneer waved from the windows
of Mr. Greenleaf's luxurious house, which, with its costly
furniture, was sold to the highest bidder, and the family
were left dependent upon their own exertions for support.
When the first shock was over, Mr. Greenleaf proposed
that his daughter should teach, and thus bring into use
her boasted accomplishments. For a time Arabella refused,
but hearing at last of a situation which she thought
might please her, she applied for it by letter. But alas,
the mistake she made when she abandoned the spelling-book
for the piano, again stood in the way, for no one
would employ a teacher so lamentably ignorant of orthography.
than her present position—that of a plain sewer—until
she goes back to first principles, and commences again
the despised column beginning with “baker!”
| Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond | |